Anne Barbour (16 page)

She felt oddly reluctant to ask him where he went. It was as though by letting him know she was aware of his peregrinations she would lose an advantage over him. No, she would watch and wait. She would display the same distant courtesy she had maintained so far toward him, and, in the meantime she would—in Marian’s words—keep an eye on the silver.

This program, however, was not so easy to maintain as she might have expected. It was impossible not to join in the conversations that sparkled and fizzed in the drawing room after dinner since his arrival, nor was it any easier to remain silent on the way to and from the fields when John conversed easily and knowledgeably on a number of subjects, from the progress of the war in the Peninsula to the likelihood of the king’s regaining his health. He drove with her into the village now and then, and escorted her and Grandmama and Mariah to church on Sundays. She took him on an inspection of her tenants’ cottages, and he surprised her with his sensible comments regarding the improvements she planned.

She glanced down the table now to where John sat, at Grandmama’s left hand. He was perfectly at his ease among this sprinkling of county gentry, just as he would have been, she surmised, at the Prince Regent’s table or sprawled on a settle in a country inn. Over his faint protests, she had purchased two suits of clothing for him in the village. They fell far short of what could remotely be called fashionable, but they were a considerable improvement over what he had been wearing when he arrived. He was garbed now in an ensemble suitable for evening wear, and he looked every inch the gentleman.

Across the table, Archie Glasham, the squire’s visiting nephew, eyed John uncertainly. Strongly bent toward dandyism, the young man favored florid waistcoats and high-pointed shirt collars. A veritable cascade of fobs dangled at his waist, and he sported an ornate quizzing glass that he brought to his eye with a flourish at every opportunity. Earlier in the evening, when the two had met, Archie had glanced contemptuously over John’s ensemble and attempted to put John firmly in his place as a nonentity scarcely entitled to sit at table with such a top of the trees as himself.

As the evening progressed, however, it became apparent that his opinion of Miss Meade’s mysterious guest had undergone a marked reversal. No one, even a budding tulip concerned solely with the cut of his clothes, could mistake John Smith for a nonentity. Catherine smiled. John was being unexpectedly kind to the boy. Archie had given him the opportunity on several occasions during dinner to skewer his ridiculous pretensions, but John had refrained. With an understanding twinkle in his eye, he had turned aside, softly and courteously, Archie’s fatuous platitudes and uninformed opinions on world matters.

“Yes,” he said sometime later, after the guests had departed, “I imagine he is somewhat of a trial to his family, but a nice young man for all of that.”

“I thought you were quite forbearing,” said Mariah with a laugh. “Did you see that waistcoat? It would have made a good signal flag.”

“It was a bit on the gaudy side,” replied John. “But it would be cruel to make sport of him, poor lad. Actually, he reminds me—” He stopped suddenly, and his eyes widened.

“What is it?” asked Catherine quickly. For the merest instant she could have sworn a look of chagrin flashed over his features, but the next moment it was replaced by one of disappointment.

“It—it’s nothing,” he responded quickly. “Only—” He sighed. “I get these—these lightning images. Something will trigger a picture in my mind, only to be gone the next moment. How can memory seem so close at some times, but so elusive at others?”

Lady Jane patted his hand. “There, there, my dear boy. I know it must be most frustrating for you, but you will come about eventually.”

“I cannot help wondering,” said John in a troubled tone, “what my family must be going through, with my being gone without explanation for so long. Or”—he smiled painfully—”perhaps I have none. At least, no one seems to be looking for me with any degree of diligence.” He lifted his gray gaze to Catherine. “You have had no response to your inquiries?”

It was more of a hopeless statement than a question, and Catherine’s heart stirred. She thought of herself as an outcast, yet she knew were she to disappear without a trace, those she thought of as family would comb the kingdom for word of her. How awful it would be to think that no one cared. No one at all.

In another few minutes, Lady Jane bade the others good night and made her way upstairs. Marian followed a few moments later, and John, too, ascended the stairs. Catherine, informing Lady Jane that she would be up in a few minutes to say good night, remained behind. Snuffing the candles in the drawing room, she moved along the corridor to the library, where she browsed restlessly among the shelves.

Lord knew she was tired enough to fall asleep instantly without the aid of a book. She had been in the Fields all day, for although the hay was done for the year, harvest had just begun on the corn for winnowing. She had been out among her laborers, as had John, as soon as the dew was off the grass, and had worked until sunset. Still, she was not yet ready for sleep.

She had experienced difficulty getting to sleep for some nights now, and she knew her wakefulness had nothing to do with the state of her body, and everything to do with her confused state of mind. She was sure she had taken John Smith’s measure just minutes after she had locked gazes with him in his bedchamber the afternoon she had brought him to the Keep. She had thought him a chaining rogue, a species with which she was all too familiar. Yet he kept confounding her original assessment. His kindness to Grandmama and Mariah, his willingness to work in the fields was certainly unlike the self-serving charm displayed by Francis. And then there was his rescue of young Will from those three ruffians a couple of days ago. True, he had at first refused to become involved, but Catherine had the definite impression that his initial reluctance to go to Will’s assistance had gone against his grain—as though he were forcing himself to take the coward’s way. It was only when it became obvious that the boy was facing insurmountable odds that John had allowed himself to follow his own inclination.

But why would a man deliberately choose to portray himself as a scoundrel? And was it a conscious effort on his part, or one that he had been practicing for so long that it had become second nature? Sighing, she turned again to the bookshelf. Really, she must get some sleep tonight. Perhaps something soporific from the pen of the poet, Chatterton, would help. Unthinking, Catherine’s lips curved upward as she recalled John’s patient reading from the tome for Grandmama’s benefit.

As she moved to pluck the book from its place on the shelf, the door opened behind her. Catherine realized without turning who had entered.

Swinging slowly about, she affixed a bright smile to her lips. “You could not sleep, Mister Smith?”

“I am John in the fields, Catherine. Can you not call me by my first name, such as it is, here in the house, as well—at least when we are alone?”

Uneasy at this pointed intimation of just how alone they were at the moment, Catherine’s laugh sounded brittle in her own ears.

“I suppose it does not make a great deal of difference what I call you, does it, since the only name I have for you is not yours?”

For an instant, a look of pain flashed in his eyes, and Catherine was shamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should not have—”

“But it is quite true. For all you know my name could be—well, not John Smith, but—oh, John Bellingham.”

“John—Oh Percival’s assassin.” She smiled uncertainly. “But he was hanged weeks ago.”

“Yes, but I might be someone else of his ilk. Or a smuggler’s apprentice, or a Luddite, or—

“Or a perfectly ordinary gentleman who suffered a misfortune while trying to help someone.”

John clapped a hand to his forehead. “Good God, an ordinary gentleman? That would be worst of all! No, I insist I must be someone with a little dash—a convict escaped from the hulks, perhaps.”

Catherine laughed dutifully, noticing with some dismay that during the course of this conversation, he had moved farther into the room and now stood at her side.

“Ah, Chatterton and his monk again. Well, that should send you off to dreamland in nothing flat. My question is why this need for a literary sleeping draught after the day you put in?”

Casually, he leaned across her shoulder to riffle the pages of the book, and Catherine was intensely and irritably aware of his nearness and its effect on her. She turned her head and nearly gasped on discovering that his eyes were mere inches from hers and that the candlelight had turned them to a glittering silver.

She laughed shakily. “Perhaps, I am overtired. Have you never been positively numb with fatigue but found yourself unable to go to sleep?”

He leaned closer, and when he spoke, his voice was a silken whisper. “Now, how would I know that? Particularly, when fatigue is the farthest thing from my mind right now.”

A maelstrom of emotions churned within her. She was by now sure that, while he possessed Francis’s easy charm, he was far different from her erstwhile lover in character. Yet she suspected him of being dishonest with her. And of using his undeniable charm for his own purposes. On the other hand, she thought she discerned something of value beneath the casual courtesy and behind those laughing gray eyes. Why it had become important to her to get to the truth of the man, she was unwilling to contemplate. She knew she should step away from him, but she was suddenly consumed with an urge to throw caution to the winds, to allow herself to be drawn into the magic of that molten gaze.

He was very close to her now, so close that she could feel the soft caress of his breath on her cheek. His hands came up to grasp her shoulders, and she was intensely aware of the warmth of his hands through the flimsy muslin of her gown. He was going to kiss her. The knowledge was a fire, building inside her, but she remained motionless under his touch. When he bent to cover her mouth with his, his lips were cool and firm, and oddly tentative.

When she made no demur, however, the kiss deepened. Instantly, a wave of pure sensation swept over her. She was terrified at the sense of violation that engulfed her—not from John’s gentle offensive, but from the tumult of her own emotions. Distantly, she heard a faint, mewling sound, and realized to her horror that it came from her own throat. His mouth moved over hers more searchingly now, more urgently—almost demanding.

And she responded. Lord, it was as though her very bones had turned to flame, and she was consumed with wanting. Even in Francis’s embrace, she had never experienced this need to press herself into him, to somehow absorb him. His hands moved on her back, caressing a spot at the nape of her neck that she had not known was exquisitely sensitive, then moving down her spine, creating a trail of fire that left her gasping. He abandoned her mouth momentarily to spread the heat over her cheeks and down her throat until she thought she would burst from the throbbing deep within her.

Dear God, Catherine cried inwardly. She was losing control! Blindly, she pulled away, and it was as though she were peeling part of her skin from her body. John released her immediately, but his breathing was harsh and his hands trembled. His eyes were the color of a storm at sea, and she fancied she could discern flashes of lightning in their depths.

In a moment, however, his demeanor had returned to its normal air of benign mockery.

“I suppose I should apologize for that, but I cannot bring myself to do so.”

Her pulse was still beating wildly, but with a supreme effort she forced her voice to calm. “There is no need,” she replied with creditable coolness. “It is I who am at fault. I made no effort to rebuff your advances.”

“No.” His laughter was smooth, albeit a trifle shaky. He rubbed his jaw reminiscently. “At least I came away relatively undamaged this time.”

John stiffened slightlythen, but the gleam of his smile remained undiminished. “A wise decision on your part, my dear,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “A lady cannot be too careful of her virtue, and to entrust it to, ‘an importunate stranger,’ is certainly the height of folly.”

Catherine made no reply, but turned away swiftly. On legs that would scarcely carry her, she walked from the room.

Reaching her bedchamber, she found her maid awaiting her, but after dismissing her, she flung herself across her bed.

What in God’s name had come over her in that darkened, book-lined chamber? She had been curious, that was all. She wanted to know what John Smith was all about, and she had wanted to settle the nagging question of her attraction to him. Well, she certainly had done that, but she could not have foretold that the answer would overwhelm her in such an avalanche of emotion. Why had she responded in such a manner? She had expected that she would enjoy his kiss—nothing more.

But this—this ravishing of her very soul, was as astonishing as it was unwelcome. She placed her fingers on her lips. They were swollen, and probably bruised as well, she thought. Dear Lord, whoever John Smith was, he was an expert in rendering a female helpless with desire. Particularly a female as inexperienced as herself, she realized sourly. Surely, if she were more sophisticated, she would not have reacted like a bedazzled schoolgirl to his embrace.

And, she realized irritably, she did not know any more about her infuriating guest than she had before. She knew only that she was dangerously attracted to him, as the proverbial moth to a flame, and if she did not want her wings thoroughly singed, she had best make it her first priority to get Mr. Smith out of her house.

She had promised him that he could stay as long as his identity was in question, but she was beginning to wonder seriously if he were making a May game of her and that he knew perfectly well who he was. Well, there was no way right now of deciding this issue, so she would simply have to redouble her efforts to discover his real name. It was possible that John Smith resided far from London, and that his family was searching for him to no avail in Yorkshire or Lincolnshire or some other remote location, not realizing that he had traveled to the south of England.